Notre-Dame Paris

The Waterman, the green barge across the way.

We are moored at Port Arsenal, Paris. Looking west we can see Notre-Dame. To the north is the Bastille.

Having just read The Paris Wife by Paula McLain, I came to Paris with great expectations. The novel concerns the young Ernest Hemingway and his first wife Hadley Richardson in Paris during the 1920s. Their friends, the artists, writers and hangouts evoke such a longing in me that I want to reach out and touch the magic of the man.

In addition, aboard the barge, I came across a copy of Hemingway Adventure by Michael Palin. Based on pre-trip, tripping, and post-trips notes kept by Palin during the making of a BBC documentary on Hemingway’s life, the book follows Palin following Hemingway’s footsteps from northern Michigan, to Chicago, to Italy, to Paris, to Spain, to Key West, to Africa, and finally to the American West. The entire book is wonderful, but the Paris years particularly so. Given these two books, you would think that I would be out and about – following not only Ernest Hemingway but also Michael Palin.

At the very least I should go to Montparnasse and look for the Dingo bar where Ernest first met F. Scott Fitzgerald. I go to Montparnasse to look for curtains, but I am too weary to seek out the Hemingway haunts.

Perhaps in contrast to rural France, city life is too frantic. I am content to sit on-board and watch the water change color with each passing boat. Nigel treated us to a city cruise aboard The Waterman, and it was nice to see the iconic French monuments from a different perspective.

Carousel dwarfed at the base of the Eiffel Tower

The Eiffel Tower looked broader at the base than I remembered, and I had never seen the replica statue of the Statue of Liberty.

Checking the history, I learned that the replica that stands downriver in the Seine was not the model for the New York City statue. Rather, it was a later one by Frederic Bartholdi, the artist who was responsible for the “skin” and Alexendre-Gustave Eiffel, the structural engineer who designed the load-bearing bones.

Statue De La Liberte

My research led me to an interesting quote from The Cleveland Gazette, an African-American newspaper. Shortly after our Ellis Island’s Statue of Liberty’s dedication in 1886, a Gazette editorial lambasted the statue:

“Liberty enlightening the world,” indeed! The expression makes us sick. The government is a howling farce. It cannot or rather does not protect its citizens with its own borders. Shove the Bartholdi statue, torch and all, into the ocean until the “liberty” of this country is such as to make it possible for an inoffensive and industrious colored man to earn a respectable living for himself and family without being ku-kluxed, perhaps murdered, his daughter and wife outraged, and his property destroyed. The idea of the “liberty” of this country “enlightening the world,” or even Patagonia, is ridiculous in the extreme.

What a great editorial! Eloquent and pointed, yet witty. And timeless too.

Chez Paul

Aside from many rambling walks without intent along the leafy, Paris boulevards and a rabbit-parts pate that was to die for at Chez Paul, the highlight of our brief stay in Paris was attending a concert of medieval music at Notre-Dame. The chandeliers were ablaze, but given the massive size of the cathedral, the interior was nearly dark and led me to imagining the space before electricity. The worn pavers led me to thinking of the countless knees bent in supplication. So much pain and anguish. It’s the looking up that lifts the spirit.

Work began on the cathedal in 1163 but was not completed until 1345. (If you haven’t read Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, I recommend it highly. Although “Pillars” is fiction, it gives a good accounting of the problems involved in the building process.) This building of cathedrals was no small thing. Notre-Dame with its higher thinner walls and many windows would have collapsed if not for the flying buttresses.

Note the scale of the pillars

How amazing that the buttresses don’t look like mere props; rather, they look integral to the whole.

I took two pictures that I find particularly evocative. In the photo of the pillars that run parallel to the nave, you can sense the weight and the scale of the support system. In contrast, the second photo shows the delicacy of the pillars towards the top of the cathedral close to the outer walls.

May the Saints be with you.

The sculptures of the saints along the front of the building are highly individualistic and naturalistic. These are men you might meet on the street. How human they are. Not particularly saintly… perhaps there is hope for the rest of us. Most of the statues along the sides of the cathedral have been defaced – according to my reading, either by the Huguenots or during the French Revolution…  after which the catholic cathedral was first re-named the Cult of Reason and later the Cult of the Supreme Being. Now there’s a story just waiting to be told.

For those of us who are so taken with the technology of the iPad, it is good to remember that the melding of art and technology are not the sole provenance of the 21^st century. And we are so arrogant to think that we’ve come so far.

North to Paris

Eglise Ste-Madeline – Montargis

Our final week aboard The Waterman- our 1925 Dutch barge… so much better (note my nose in the air) than those newer, plastic boats- has been somewhat a shock. After three weeks of pastoral bliss, we have left rural France where excitement was counted in the total of locks navigated and number of cygnets herded by parental swans.

We delighted in the stately swans, each a regal prima donna, all gliding by with unseen books balanced on their heads. 

The cygnets, their down so feather light, looked like floating dust bunnies. Two adult swans led the way, and six cygnets followed in their wake. A second cluster of five cygnets followed the first. Two more adults brought up the rear. We wondered if the four adults were related. Might the two females be sisters or cousins? Perhaps one male married his best friend’s sister? All we knew for sure was that if we had drawn  too close to the babies, these serene swans would not  have hesitated to peck our eyes out. 

We loved Montargis (the last of the picturesque canal towns) with its Venice-like network of small canals. Montargis is large enough to find anything you would want; small enough to have a distinct identity. Walking the canals we saw a delivery van proclaiming the advantages of horse meat. Yes, horse meat is lean, but I would rather not eat it. Horse meat is just not part of my culture.

Tres tendre

Along this same train of cultural thought… the windows of Eglise Ste-Madeline are beautiful beyond compare. But one window in particular caught my attention. The window celebrates the introduction of Christianity to the Far East.

As I reflected on this particular window. I dropped to my knees on a Prie Dieu. Looking down on the armrest, I saw that someone had carved ‘Vive l’islam’ on the surface.

East and West – will the twain never meet? Our tribalism and cultural biases are primal. I don’t hold out much hope.

We  left the canal and joined the busier more turbulent River Seine at Nemours, and as the landscape became more commercial and suburban, my dissatisfaction mounted.

I am such a Romantic! You might think that I would prefer to leave the 21st century and become a 17^th century goose girl. Gone are the century-old, stone houses and self-contained villages within a golden landscape. Gone are the narrow two-lane country roads with grass growing in the cracked asphalt.

The pace has picked up. Cars crowd and billboards blighten the highways. Paris is a magnet and like iron filings, we are drawn to the city at ever faster speed. The houses fronting the river are more contemporary: a high-rise here, a bungalow there, and every so often a white, window-walled, California cube. The houses fronting the Seine are an international mix and without nationality. They leave me feeling bereft.

Goodbye Rural – Hello Urban

The Butter Is Better in France

Another day of birdsong. It is a lovely way to transition by degrees from sleep to wakefulness. The canal, the river and the swath of vegetation running parallel to the water make for a perfect habitat, and the birds make good use of it.

Mornings aboard the barge are busy as it is important to get underway and move on to our next mooring. Sometimes we anchor alone amongst the greenery in the company of waterfowl; other times we choose a public mooring complete with water, electricity, and a town. That said, many of the “towns” in rural France are little more than hamlets. The towns, like small town everywhere, are dying. All the youngsters have “followed the money” and moved to the city.

No building is too old to house a beauty salon.

More than once we’ve been looking for a market and been told that “We used to have a grocery but now…” If we can buy a baguette, we are lucky. In the smaller villages, only the bakers and the beauty salons have managed to hang on. Based on the number of beauty shops, I suspect no French woman shampoos her hair at home.

We can do without electricity and water for a couple of days but we cannot do without butter, baguettes, cheese and chocolate… of which I have eaten more in the last month than I have eaten in my entire life. Not that there is anything wrong with vegetables, but when you have eaten your full of butter, baguettes, cheese and chocolate, you are indeed full. I have a better understanding of gluttony now. You could say that I’m a well-rounded person. Many a day we don’t move past the local wines and appetizers.

An early mooring affords us plenty of opportunity to cycle and walkabout: to visit markets, churches, historical sites and local attractions. In my case, I’m always keen to see the local cemetery.

In addition to a headstone, French cemeteries have a stone… I call it a casket sized stone slab (there is probably a more technical term) that covers the surface of the grave. These slabs are close together – below the slab, everyone is rubbing elbows. The surface of the slabs is covered with smaller marble pieces placed by children, grandchildren, friends, co-workers and veterans’ organizations. The mementos say a lot about the giver and the recipient. Hunting and fishing are common references as are mementos that reference farming. I love the translucent plastic tractor.

Some gravesites include photographs of the deceased. Pictures of their younger selves are more attractive, but pictures taken during their elder years tell a better story. The men always look younger and more vital. The women look unhappy and worn. Pinching pennies, hard work, and birthing innumerable children take a toll.

Many of the plaques read “Regrets.” I found the word a bit odd. I would expect the plaque to read “Miss you” or something similar. But… regrets? I checked a French/English dictionary to see if “regrets” in French was the same as it is in English. Apparently so. Regret: remorse, shame, pang of guilt, pang of conscience, mourn, bemoan, to be disappointed, and to grieve over… to name a few. The colloquial choices are much more colorful: how about no way, I’m sorry, or calm down?

I really like “calm down.” It is the perfect choice for my grave marker: it’s a reminder to me in the here-and-now and a message from beyond the grave to anyone who might grieve.

As for “regrets,” there shouldn’t be any… on anyone’s part.

Misty Mornings on the Canal

It has taken me a good three weeks to adapt to life aboard a barge. My body clock (set on fast-forward) took some time to wind down. In the beginning, I felt shackled with lead weights. My body wanted to move forward, but at 4K/hr, I was reduced to a crawl.

The weather has been unseasonably cold. Travel usually involves some regrets as to what you forgot to pack in your suitcase. This trip I really regret bringing gloves. Mittens would have been good. Sturdy gardening gloves would have been better. My fallback has been to buy some pink, rubber kitchen gloves which add touch of color (if not class) to my navy blue pants, blue turtleneck, blue sweatshirt and blue hooded waterproof.

The high-fashion hand you’d love to hold.

Mornings are misty, and we’ve had our share of rain. To the plus side, we pass very few boats. We have the canal to ourselves and that is very pleasant.  I love the rural nature of the canal-side buttercups, Queen Anne’s lace, and cultivated fields interspersed with a green jungle of ivy-clad deciduous trees. Gray herons and ducks abound. Apparently some Mallards have yet to breed and we see a mousy brown female escorted by two irridescent green-headed males. Most often the males follow- one to her left flank and one to her right. She seems oblivious to her courtiers awaiting her notice. She pays them no heed. Which male will catch her attention is anyone’s guess. Those Mallards who have already hatched a clutch of eggs have eight to ten ducklings.

mirror image

Most of the ducklings trail their mother, but always one or two march to their own drummer. Left to their own devices, they suddenly realize that they are out of step, and they swim so fast to catch up that they appear to walk on water. 

We delight in the cuckoos. The cuckoo’s call is regular as a metronome, each “cuc” and every “koo” beating out the seconds with the regularity of a Swiss watch.

I’m reading Where Angels Fear to Tread by E. M. Forster. I’ve seen the movies based on Forster’s novels: loved Howard’s End, Passage to India and Room with a View, but this is the first time I’ve actually immersed myself in his prose. What a treat! I feel as though I’ve fallen through the rabbit hole and into a candy store.

I am reminded that however true the book is to the script, however talented the actors, however insightful the director, no movie can compare to the written word and the reader’s imagination to film the scene in his mind’s eye.

The book itself is a used, faded, yellow-paged, Penguin Classic from a charity shop. Here on the barge, I have abused it. Now it is really used with stars, underlining, and margin notes. I will not be passing this book on. It will be a textbook of sorts. I have tasted Forster, rolled his wording in my mouth and savored his phrasing. Dare I hope that by osmosis my writing will improve? It is a silly question. If I were to go to an opera and swoon to the music, would I be able to sing equally well the next morning? I think not.

The book’s introduction, appendix and notes add so much. Long Live Penguin Classics! In the appendix I read an exchange between Forster and English poet and translator, R.C.Trevelyn. In a letter, dated 28 October 1905, Forster wrote, “The object of the book is the improvement of Philip, and I did really want the improvement to be a surprise.”

Iris – the slow reveal

In his letter to Trevelyan, Forster shares his anguish over how to accomplish his aim… to avoid transparency and to not give away too much too soon: “This ‘surprise’ method is artistically wrong and that from the first one must suggest the possibility, not the merely the impossibility, of improvement. I do dislike finger posts.” Foster’s letter is a Master Class in the technique of characterization and the slow reveal. I am tempted to re-read the novel and chapter by chapter and weigh the clues to Philip’s transformation from an amoral, superficial, young man to a man of more substance.

E. M. Forster, master of the slow reveal.

Sex Education in France

This blogging while travelling is not for the faint of heart. Focus is a problem. I look to the left and I see a beautiful arched bridge spanning a town crowded with 17^th and 18^th century stone houses. I look to the right and see we are approaching a lock: are we going up or down; are we tying up on the left or right; will the lock keeper also be selling goat cheese, wine or white asparagus? Travel aboard a barge may be slow, but you have more free time for wonder, speculation, and appreciation.

And then there are the odd bits. A mural on a wall, an odd sign, a meal you have eaten, a wine you’ve drunk. How do you pick and choose topics for the blog?

Not that I speak French, but luckily for me, as one of the Romance languages, French has many cognates. I may not understand what the French are saying, but I can read a bit. One sign called my attention to sex. The sign was set up as an acrostic. The words Desir, Aventure, Passion, Plaisir, Sexe, Emotions, Amour, Partage, and Tendresse were listed one below the other. But running vertically through the words, letters framed in red spelled out “Depistage.” At the bottom of the sign read: “Le depistage fait parlie de volre vie sexuelle. Faites le test du VIH et des autres IST.”

I knew that the sign warned against HIV and sexually transmitted disease, but it was only after I turned to an English/French dictionary that I caught the tone.

The only words I needed to look up were “Plaisir” which is pleasure and “Partage” which is sharing. As for the concluding sentences, the text in English reads: Screening is part of sex life. Take the test for HIV and other STIs.

I am struck by the sign because the tone is so different in America as compared to the tone in France. Sex education posters in the States are not warm and friendly. Rather, they feel like pursed lips and pointing fingers. The frowning judgemental American posters are pointing their fingers at careless promiscuous sex addicts. In contrast, the French posters feel more like a hug. Note the words: emotion, love, sharing, and tenderness. Screening for sexually transmitted disease is not just for selfish sex addicts. Screening is for everyone who cares about his partner.

The Dark Side of Mistletoe

Not that we don’t have green vegetation in Westcliffe, but the number of deciduous trees here in France takes me back East to New York and Pennsylvania. The mistletoe infestation – particularly severe between Never and Sancerre- catches my eye. Nearly every tree along the canal is festooned like some pagan Christmas tree with big 24” balls of mistletoe. This can’t be healthy. I am left to wonder (during these hard economic times… aren’t you tired of hearing that phrase?) if France has the resources to combat the parasites. Pruning is the only answer. Surely the country cares. The number of newly planted trees is evidence to that.

Cruising along the canal, I count the number of mistletoe balls on each tree. I am looking for an average. What is the average number of balls, and how many balls does it take to kill a tree? 15 balls seem to be about average. I begin to wonder if at 15 balls, the mistletoe and the host tree come to an understanding… reach some sort of stasis: the tree tolerates the infestation, but the balls intuitively sense how many of them can derive nutrients without fatally killing the golden goose. Once the balls reach critical mass, do they back off?

All this conjecture is silly, but these random thoughts lead me to think of the health of our planet. If humans are the parasites, how many parasites will it take to kill planet earth? Or… when we parasites hit critical mass, will we be smart enough to back off on our consumption? In the case of the mistletoe, pruning is the only solution; in the case of the planet, pruning is not a solution. Perhaps we should start with an awareness of the problem.

Enough! As I said, the French have been very diligent planting trees. The trees (some variety of poplar, I think) standing straight and erect as sentinels, line the canal and mark our passage. I feel like royalty.

Periodically, we pass woodlots, each tree planted equidistant from the others to allow for maximum growth. As I understand it, every year each community (commune) plants a plot of saplings destined for cutting in 30 years. Planting and harvesting annually, the wood supply is constant and free to those engaged in the process. What a great model.   

We drift through white wine country. Even those of us who weren’t keen on drinking whites, have become enamored with the white wines of the Sancerre region. We buy bottles to save, but then we have to buy more bottles because we have drunk the first batch.

as far as the eye can see

Sancerre is hilly country and as the old saw goes, the best wine comes from the sunny side. We write down the names of the vineyards and the wines that we like best, but then we realize that most likely these wines will not make it to the United States. We stop for wine tastings and learn more about viniculture than I’ll ever remember. According to my notes, 280 producers depend on 2,750 acres under cultivation. 80 percent of the land in the Sancerre region is devoted to Sauvignon blanc grapes; 20 to percent Pinot noir.

High wheeled tractors (their wheels running between the rows of vines and the crab-like body of the cab above the vines) have articulated arms that reach over the vines and elbow down to the base. The arms are emitting fungicide to fight Phylloxera, a small sap-sucking insect that feeds on the grapes’ roots. Between 1854 and 1860, the insects came close to killing the wine industry. By the end of the 19^th century, 2/3 of the existing vineyards were infected. Heaven forbid! Luckily, phylloxera is at this point under control. Supplying more water during irrigation and adding lighter sandy soil is a help.

As for what I learned… I learned how the soil and the relative layering of the clay, chalk and flint soil affects the taste of the wine. The wine and a wealth of information have my head swimming.

I need to sit down. Rest a bit. Sip a glass of wine.

 

The Royal Way

A Snail’s Tale

If I had woken up and looked out the window not knowing where I was, would I have recognized my location? Looking out the window, I instantly knew (like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz) that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore.

Although France, like England, has been experiencing drought conditions, recent rains and the burgeoning of spring have turned the whole world green. The numerous oak trees are in transition. I see their gnarly, lateral branches, straight out of some witchy Walt Disney movie. The budding leaves are just unfurling – their scalloped lobes are clearly visible.

In the fields, I see sheep and white Charolais cattle. In the States, we may see Charolais, but most likely as a novelty breed at the State Fair. Here in France, they are a dime-a-dozen. And so, more than any other clue, the cattle give our location. The sun is shining although the there is no guarantee that it will last. The weather is very unstable: in any given day we have sun, showers, and squalls.

I’m aboard a barge moored at Fleury sur Loire, a small village on a wide canal that runs parallel to the Loire River. According to our reference book, I can cycle to an unspoiled beach some 8 kilometers away. Or I can check out the remains of a Roman Villa, a 12^th century church, lengths of the old Roman road or a 13^th century château. I’m spoiled for choice. If I should miss the château coming up on our right, I can catch another. How blasé!

A fan of cemeteries, I check the Fleury village memorial to the fallen soldiers. 41 died in WW I; 3 in WW II. I want to take a look at the WW I battle lines. How could so many men die from such a small village? And what of the women? Was the village larger during the WW I period? I can’t tell you how much I miss having Internet close to hand. I miss having a question and being unable to instantly look for the answer. I am so spoiled.

Apremont-sur-Allier is a “three-flower village,” a designation awarded places of distinctive beauty. Charted in 1467,, Apremont-sur-Allier features a château at the top of a knoll, and at a lower elevation is the village that at one point housed the château’s support staff- the farmers, the domestic help, the folks who kept the fiefdom up and running. Today the restored château features five of the original 14 defensive towers.

Rather than a hodge-podge of helter-skelter houses built over the centuries, the village houses are uniform.. During the 1930s, Eugene Schneider (one member of the Schneider family that has owned the estate since 1722) undertook the most recent restoration. Houses not in keeping with the medieval style were demolished, and new houses were built to a medieval architectural standard. The village is beautiful, but it feels synthetic.

I’d rather see three, authentic, medieval houses in a mis-matched village. Every “regular” village we cruise past has storybook depth. Every house in every village (stone or stucco over stone) is a treat to the eye. If only the houses could talk – they have seen so much – what stories they could tell! Nearly all houses have working outside shutters (not to be confused with merely decorative shutters). My first impression was that nearly all homes were closed for the winter, but the shutters are closed on a daily basis. Should a home with shutters need to make an insurance claim, shuttered homes will have an easier time.

Life aboard is a barge is very slow. We have covered 85 miles in two weeks of travel. We putt along at a snail’s pace. Navigating the canals is an exercise of life in the slow lane. Sometimes the gates are open in our direction. Other times we have to wait for approaching boats to come our way and clear the lock before we can enter. Walking the rural by-ways , I have seen many snails. Some are king-prawn size – one is big enough to serve as an appetizer.

Pont Canal du Guetin

Thus far, my favorite lock has been Pont Canal du Guetin, the elevated aqueduct over the Loire River. Ahead, water in the lock lies smooth as silk. Below, the Loire river water tumbles past in a rush of white. Salmon ladders add to the froth. The 174 kilometer canal - begun in 1783 and completed in 1842 - was built to facilitate floating wood cut in the Morvan forests to Paris. Although we have seen a couple of commercial barges, today, the canal caters mostly to recreational traffic.

In my last blog, I mentioned that I was chagrined that none (not one) of us spoke French. How, I wondered, would we survive? Well, we have survived (if not thrived) with smiles and hand signals. In addition to carrying a French/English dictionary, I have a wordless, picture dictionary which is perfect for those of us who look at the phonetic spelling of  French and are still confused as to the pronunciation.

Despite their reputation for being impatient with non-French speakers, the people whom we have met seem to delight in our combination English, Spanish, and gestures. Charades. I’ve always been good at charades.